


Survivor

by Bookkbaby



Series: Until Only A Scar Remains [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-9.03, Rape Recovery, Supportive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/pseuds/Bookkbaby
Summary: 'Tips for Friends & Family of Survivors' the top of the page reads.'Survivors', not 'victims'. Part of Dean grimly appreciates the distinction, the strength inherent in the word. 'Victim' isn't a word he's comfortable associating with Cas; a 'victim' is a dead body in the morgue, it's scraps of meat scattered along a forest floor.A 'victim' is someone who didn't make it out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags. This fic series deals with Cas's recovery after the events of 9.03 and as such the subject matter is VERY dark.
> 
> I have several more fics in this series planned because honestly, this is pretty cathartic to write (though it definitely helps to hear from other people that it helps them, too)
> 
> Will eventually be Dean/Cas, right now is just destiel-flavored

Dean hears the footsteps approaching his room just in time. Heart in sudden overdrive, he scrambles to close the pages he has open on Sam's borrowed laptop and just barely manages to slam the laptop shut before the doorknob turns.

Sam pokes his shaggy head into the room, frown morphing into a scowl when he notices Dean reclining on his bed with Sam's laptop in his lap. Dean gives the younger Winchester his most innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth expression.

Sam's scowl darkens.

"I was going to ask if you'd seen my laptop, but _clearly_ ," Sam starts, making a vague, displeased gesture at the laptop on Dean's lap. "You better not have gotten any viruses on it, jerk."

Dean musters up a smirk, inwardly relaxing. Sam didn't suspect. Good.

"Aw, come on Sammy, I'm pent-up in here," Dean says. Sam sighs and shakes his head.

"I'm _trying_  to find us a hunt," he says. "And it would be a lot easier if my laptop stopped disappearing." Sam gives Dean a pointed look. Dean shrugs it off.

"A man's got needs," Dean says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. He makes a show of lifting up the closest side of the laptop, checking beneath it. "And ah... we might have a little _problem_  if you want it back right this second..."

He lets his voice trail off. Sam, as expected, makes a horrified face.

" _Gross_ , Dean!" Sam says, shaking his head and recoiling like being in the same room as Dean one second longer would burn him alive. "You'd better not get anything on my laptop!"

"I make no promises!" Dean calls out, grinning. Sam makes a disgusted noise and slams the door behind himself.

Dean's smile drops from his face the second the door closes. He waits with baited breath as Sam's footsteps disappear down the hall, and only then does he relax.

He re-opens the laptop and recovers the tabs he had open. He breathes out.

That had been a close one.

Despite what Sam thought - and what Dean had purposefully implied - Dean wasn't watching porn. In fact, Dean could honestly say porn had never been further from his mind. All week, he'd been stealing Sam's laptop to do something far more important than get his kicks or look up a new case.

'Tips for Friends & Family of Survivors' the top of the page reads.

'Survivors', not 'victims'. Part of Dean grimly appreciates the distinction, the strength inherent in the word. 'Victim' isn't a word he's comfortable associating with Cas; a 'victim' is a dead body in the morgue, it's scraps of meat scattered along a forest floor. A 'victim' is someone who didn't make it out.

For a moment, Dean's mind is unwillingly pulled back to that day, to bursting into _her_  apartment and watching helplessly as she brought the knife down, down, _down_.

Cas's cry of pain still wakes Dean up some nights. The memory is more chilling now, with Dean's new knowledge of the context of what had already been a pretty horrific moment.

Dean shudders.

Cas hasn't spoken to him about it since that night, a little over a week ago now. Dean knows it's not over; it can't be, not so easily. There are still days where Cas walks into the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, hair soaking wet from the shower and all the considerable hot water in the bunker used up. There are moments when Dean catches Cas looking at him, expression a cross between wary and speculative, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Still, he hasn't actually _said_  anything, and Dean's not about to push Cas to talk if he's not ready. Dean still doesn't even know what to say beyond 'it wasn't your fault', hence the research.

He's learned some useful stuff; what to say if Cas has another flashback, like he did at the bar. What not to say, ever, though Dean couldn't imagine telling Cas any variation of 'it doesn't matter' or 'well, you made your choice'.

The very thought turns his stomach. Cas's _face_  during the flashback, pale and scared, was enough to make the lie in either statement glaringly obvious.

It was a bit gratifying to know that his instincts had been pretty spot-on when he'd initially been blindsided by the truth. He'd repeated that it wasn't Cas's fault, had asked permission before touching him, and done his best to not smother Cas. He'd let Cas choose, let Cas set his boundaries.

Dean chalked that up to meeting a lot of trauma victims in his line of work, though it had never been someone this close to him before. He'd never stuck around to help someone with the recovery before.

It was different, it was frustrating, and it didn't feel like enough. Dean was used to being able to punch or decapitate his problems and this was one tough son-of-a-bitch he couldn't lay a _finger_ on.

Dean sighed and leaned back against the headboard. He glanced at his nightstand, at the drawer near the top.

One useful thing he had learned, something he hadn't considered; it helped, sometimes, to talk things out. Write things down that you couldn't say out loud.

Three days ago, Dean had been on a grocery run and spotted a notebook in the store. It was sunshine yellow with a raised honeycomb pattern on the front and small, fuzzy bees crawling over it. The notebook had reminded Dean of Cas and he'd added it to his basket without really thinking about it.

It had lived in the drawer next to his bed ever since. Dean had thought he'd find the right moment to give it to Cas, but no such moment had presented itself.

And Cas isn't talking to Dean. Not about this. So maybe...

Maybe until Cas feels ready, Dean can give him a different, more private outlet that isn't simply keeping it locked inside. Dean knows all about repression and that it does shit for anybody.

He breathes out and shut Sam's laptop again.

* * *

He finds Cas right where he'd expected the former angel to be; in his room, door closed.

Dean can hear movement on the other side of the door as he stands out in the hallway. He takes a deep breath and clutches the notebook tighter, then knocks. 

The movement within stops.

"Cas?" Dean clears his throat. "Can I come in? I've got something for you."

There is silence. Then, a shuffle.

The door creaks open and Cas peers around it, blinking tiredly at Dean, his hair a mess of cowlicks. Dean smiles and holds up the notebook. Cas looks at it and frowns, puzzled.

"A notebook?" he asks. Dean nods, feeling his smile fade as he remembers just why it was he'd bought the notebook.

"Yeah, it..." Dean clears his throat again and surreptitiously glances down the hall. "Can I come in?"

It feels wrong to have this conversation half in the hallway. The subject matter feels too fragile for any errant breeze that might blow by, no matter how delicately they dance around the topic.

Cas's eyes go to the notebook again, some of the sleepiness dropping from his expression with the sudden tension. Dean can see some confusion still on the former angel's face, like Cas knows the notebook isn't just a light-hearted gift but doesn't quite understand what it's for.

"All right," Cas says finally, stepping back and pulling the door open for Dean. Dean smiles tightly and walks in.

As Cas shuts the door behind him, it hits Dean that he's never actually been in Cas's room since the former angel had come to live with them permanently. He takes a moment to glance around, curious to see what Cas has done with the space.

Nothing.

Dean shifts uneasily on his feet. His strained smile melts completely as he looks around again, but the view doesn't change. Bare walls, bare floor, even the bed is void of personality. The same white sheets and white pillowcases you can find at any cheap motel, the moth-eaten down comforter spread on top. There are no books on the nightstand, no knickknacks on the shelves.

But there, over by the empty closet, is a neatly packed duffle bag.

Dean swallows. He stares at the duffle bag, the notebook he holds suddenly heavy as lead.

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't look at him.

"Going somewhere?" he asks, staring pointedly at the bag. Cas follows his gaze and Dean can hear him shift uncomfortably.

"I... wasn't planning on it," Cas says haltingly. Dean nods sharply, trying to rein in his temper.

He's been stupid. He's been an _idiot_  to think Cas would _stay_.

"Hunt's over, you can unpack your stuff," Dean says, voice just shy of demanding. He turns his eyes to Cas just in time to see Cas glance at the duffle with a pained expression and then look down.

"It's simpler to keep it packed," Cas says, not meeting Dean's eyes. Dean watches Cas's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "For when you- in case I have to-"

Dean frowns at the disjointed way Cas is speaking, his anger subsiding as he realizes Cas's reactions are _wrong_.

The sudden realization is like ice water pouring down his spine.

Had there been one thing, one _fucking_  thing, during Cas's stint as a human that had gone right? Or at least not soul-crushingly _horrible_?

With everything that had been revealed about that day, Dean had almost forgotten one of his biggest fuck-ups to date. Or at least, not put it into context to realize just how awful it must have been for Cas. Now though, holding the notebook and staring at proof that Cas hasn't dared make himself at home here, it is impossible not to.

After everything with April, after _dying_  at her hands... and Dean had kicked him out. Dean had told him flatly "you need to go", no explanation, no support, too wrapped up in his own upset at the _necessity_  to see the devastation in Cas's eyes.

Dean had felt guilty about it already, but knowing what he did now... fuck, he'd take being back in the Pit over this feeling any day. He deserved it.

No wonder Cas didn't fucking feel welcome to make the room his own.

Dean blinks his eyes, rubbing at them as they prickled uncomfortably. Must be the dust.

"Dean?" Cas asks, worried. Dean feels it like a punch to the gut. He forces himself to smile at Cas, trying in vain to keep his posture relaxed.

"We should go to the store," Dean says abruptly. Cas tilts his head, confused by the non sequitur. Dean coughs. "We could get you a new comforter. Posters for the walls. A rug, maybe. One of those stupid clocks that makes bird noises every hour."

Cas nods slowly.

"Okay," he says uncertainly. Dean nods, not looking at Cas but instead waving to take in the whole barren room.

"Just... whatever you want," Dean says. He glances back at Cas, whose expression is starting to lighten with comprehension. "Anything."

"... all right," Cas says, looking at his packed bag and then back to Dean. Dean lets out a breath, relieved. Cas turns his gaze to the notebook still clenched in Dean's hands. "You brought me a notebook?"

Dean hesitates. Then he takes a deep breath.

"You can write in it," Dean says slowly, looking down at the notebook. He squeezes it in his hands, as though to lend or draw strength from the brightly colored book, and then offers it to Cas "It's supposed to... to help."

Cas takes the notebook warily. He draws his fingertips delicately down the front cover, dragging the pads of his fingers over the raised honeycomb pattern.

"'Help'?" Cas parrots, flipping the cover open to admire the crisp white paper inside. Dean nods and gathers his courage.

"With things that you can't- things that are hard to, you know. Talk about," Dean says. He rubs the back of his head, briefly wishing that Cas had confided in Sam, or that he had Sam's grace in dealing with tough emotional subjects.

Cas has gone still, not looking at Dean. Dean plows forward.

"So if you need to," Dean gestures at the notebook. "I mean... I'll listen? But if you don't want to talk..." Dean takes another deep breath. "It... helps to get that shit out of your head."

Dean had a notebook, once. It had been a cheap, dollar-store thing, and the ramblings inside would probably seem like a madman's ranting if anybody picked it up, but it had helped. After Hell, after losing Sammy, after losing Cas and finding him again and losing him and-

Dean shook himself. Writing helped. Not quite the same way a bottle did, but there was a different kind of catharsis in writing than there was in drinking yourself numb.

Cas is silent for a long minute. Then, finally, he cradles the notebook to his chest, still not looking at Dean. His mouth opens, then shuts, and he glances up as if to ask permission to speak.

Dean waits, throat closing up.

He'd offered to listen if Cas wanted to talk and he meant it. Cas watches him for a moment, then looks down again.

"... is it always like that?" Cas finally asks, voice strained and almost inaudible. 

"Is what always like what?" Dean asks carefully.

"Sex," Cas says. There's a heavy silence for a moment, one where that tiny, three-letter word feels like a 100-ton weight.

"Oh," Dean says, glancing away. He opens his mouth, closes it again, shakes his head. He feels immediately out of his depth, a lump forming in his throat as he fully parses the question.

Fuck, of _course_  Cas would ask that. Of course he wouldn't know that no, there's a huge goddamn difference, even if the mechanics are the same.

Dean realizes Cas is still waiting for an answer, tension in every line of his frame. Dean clears his throat.

"Cas, that wasn't-" he starts gently, but Cas shakes his head.

"I know," he says, voice tight and fragile like blown glass. Dean nods.

Ok.

Ok, he can do this.

"It's not like that," Dean says. He clears his throat again. "Sex is... when it's something you want, it's really, er, good."

Smooth talker there, Winchester. He winces but can still feel Cas's eyes on him, waiting with an expression carved from wary granite. He runs his hand over the back of his head.

"'Good'," Cas prompts him slowly, disbelieving. Dean nods.

"Sex is..." Dean's mind gropes for a description, something meaningful, because this isn't the conversation for crude innuendos and one-liners. Pity those are Dean's specialty when it comes to this particular topic. "It's comforting. It makes you feel, like..." Dean waves his hands vaguely, inwardly cursing himself for not having the words to say. "Happy. Satisfied. _Pleased_. If you're with someone you care about-"

Dean makes the mistake of looking at Cas and his heart jumps. He immediately backpedals, clearing his throat.

The whole 'when two people love each other very much' approach was a little too preschool anyway.

"-or someone you think is hot-" Dean trips over his words because _damn_ , but this approach felt somehow _worse_. "It's a bit of human contact. Sex is about feeling good, you know?"

"I do not," Cas says quietly, looking away again. Dean bites the inside of his cheek. Cas clears his throat.

"It doesn't make you feel..." Cas's voice trails off and he runs his hand up his arm. Dean feels the lump in his throat swell, his mind perfectly recalling the broken sound of Cas's voice that night in the motel room.

_"I can't wash it off."_

"Dirty?" Dean whispers. Cas hunches in on himself a little and doesn't look at Dean. Dean shakes his head. "No. Sex doesn't make you feel like that."

And if he puts a little more emphasis on 'sex' than necessary, well... he's sure Cas gets his meaning.

Cas is quiet for a long moment, digesting Dean's words. Dean wonders if the conversation is over, if Cas learned what he needed to, or if he wants more. Dean's not sure what else there is to say.

Cas breathes in deeply, as if to steel himself.

"... someone else might have thought she was 'hot'," Cas's hands clench into fists, white knuckled and painful looking. He swallows thickly. "But I still-"

Almost before Dean knows what he's doing, he reaches out to overlap one of Cas's hands with his own. Cas tenses, still not looking at Dean.

"But you didn't want her to touch you," Dean says quietly, hesitant. He doesn't want to put words in Cas's mouth or upset him. His voice is hoarse with emotion and he wishes he could remain level-headed for this, that he could just _be there_  for Cas without getting angry on his behalf. "That's why it's different."

Cas takes a deep breath. He lets it out slowly and Dean can hear it waver.

"No," Cas says, quiet and decisive. "I didn't."

Dean squeezes his hand and reluctantly lets go.

"That's what makes all the difference," Dean says. "And next time you... I mean. It won't be like that next time. I swear."

Dean means the words to be comforting. Reassuring. He doesn't expect Cas's expression to cloud over or for Cas to shift away from him.

"And if I don't?" Cas asks, voice sharp. "If I never permit... _that_  again?"

He spits the word like it had been poisoned.

For a moment, Dean wants to tell Cas not to write it off completely. He shouldn't let one bad (awful, _traumatizing_ ) experience ruin one of the greatest  
parts of human existence for him. He should be able to reclaim it, enjoy it on his own terms.

Dean shakes himself, annoyed. That's not what Cas needs right now. Dean's grown up a little from that stupid kid who took an angel to a brothel and threatened to push him into one of the back rooms. Dean likes to think he's learned a bit about himself and a lot about Cas since then.

'His own terms' might very well mean 'never'. And even if it doesn't... maybe that's what Cas needs right now. Maybe he needs to swear 'never' and have that be his truth. Maybe he'll reconsider later. Maybe he won't.

It's Cas's choice.

"Then you don't," Dean says. "Nobody is going to make you."

 _Not again_.

Cas looks at him. Dean meets his eyes steadily, hoping Cas can read the truth in them.

Slowly, Cas nods. He breathes out, shoulders slumping and head bowing.

"Thank you," Cas says, so quietly Dean almost doesn't hear it. Dean forces himself to smile.

"No problem," he says. Cas smiles back and it's small but it's _there_. Dean breathes a little easier.

Cas is a _survivor_ ; he can handle whatever life throws at him.

And Dean will be there to pick up the slack when Cas can't do it on his own.


End file.
